Lifeline
by eggsaladstain
Summary: When he dreams, it's Skye in the well, and he's the one who pushed her in. When he wakes, he's the one in the well, and she's pulling him out.
1. I

**Lifeline**

I.

When he closes his eyes that night, he dreams of the well.

...

It looks the same as he remembered - dirty with decay, and even though he's an adult now, it looks just as imposing, just as threatening as it did all those years ago. He can't bring himself to move. Maybe he's still just a boy after all.

He's still standing there, rooted to the spot, when a word catches his ear. It's a faint echo coming from deep inside the well - his name.

The voice is familiar, but it's not his brother's - this time, it's someone else's. His feet are moving of their own accord, leading him closer and closer, and a moment later, his hands are gripped tightly around the ledge, the crumbling stone damp and cold beneath his fingers. Even as he leans over the edge to see, he already knows whose voice it is down there, whose voice he doesn't want it to be.

The first thing he notices is that she's shivering.

She's shivering, and it makes her look so small, as if she might disappear at any moment. The water splashes lightly as she tries to keep her head up and her breaths come out in sharp whimpers. When she looks up at him, her eyes are wide and bright. He recognizes that look, the look she gave him when he wasn't quite himself, but this time, he _is_ himself, and this time, he flinches under her gaze.

For a brief, terrible moment, he wonders if he was the one who pushed her in there. And from the fear in her face, he's afraid of the answer.

He wants to turn away, he wants to forget that look in her eyes, but then her lips are forming his name, except the only sound they make is a strangled gasping noise. His training tells him to help her - she's drowning, dammit - but he can't move. He freezes. He chokes. And she goes under. For five seconds, or maybe ten, but it feels like an eternity before she re-emerges, soaking wet and coughing. His heart is ringing in his ears, and she's not the only one struggling to breathe.

The sound of splashing water gets louder and he can tell that she's panicking, violently fighting to stay alive. He hasn't felt this helpless in a long time, not since the last time, but now, there's no one holding him back, no one stopping him from saving her, and yet he still can't bring himself to move. Maybe he's been holding himself back this whole time.

_Grant._

It's her voice that finally undoes him, just like it did before, bringing him back from the edge.

_Grant!_

He grabs the rope from the ground and throws her the lifeline, but he's too late, again. The last thing he sees is her eyes, wide and terrified, before the well swallows her whole.

_Skye!_

His voice echoes against the walls, but the water remains still and silent.

She already gone.

And this time, she doesn't come back up.

...

He wakes with a start in May's room, gasping for air, lungs burning, as if he were the one drowning. His neck cracks as he sits up in the chair - they never actually _sleep_ together - and he remembers where he is. More importantly, he remembers where he isn't.

He leans back into the seat and runs his hands through his hair. The well had seemed so real, and even now, he can still smell the water, feel the stone beneath his fingers. When he closes his eyes, he still sees her face, hears her voice in his ears. But it's not real - it was his brother in the well, not her.

It wasn't her, he tells himself, over and over until he believes it.

It wasn't her.

But every time he closes his eyes, it is.

For the first time, his dreams are worse than his memories.


	2. II

**Lifeline**

II.

He doesn't sleep much after that.

A couple hours at night, maybe a power nap when he can sneak one in, but nothing more. It's just enough for his body to function, but not so much that he hits REM, and for the most part, it's working. By the time he finally lets himself rest, his mind is too exhausted to think, let alone dream, which is exactly what he wants.

He spends late nights in the cargo hold, either studying strategy and tactical plans or taking his frustrations out on the punching bag. More often than not, he falls asleep there and it becomes his new routine – waking up on the cold floor with a crick in his neck and a knot in his back, and then sneaking back to his room in the morning. He hasn't touched his bed in days.

The fatigue sets in a week later.

No matter how much coffee he drinks, he can't seem to stop yawning, and he starts taking caffeine pills every couple of hours. He hasn't noticed any other effects from the sleep deprivation yet, no delayed reactions or impaired judgment, but he knows it's only a matter of time. It's only a matter of time before he becomes a liability, to himself and to his team. And it's only a matter of time before they notice.

He can already see Agent Coulson's face, angry but calm. Disappointed. He would try to explain the situation, that it was really a no-win scenario for him. If the sleep deprivation weren't wreaking havoc on his mind, he's certain that watching Skye drown night after night would. But Coulson wouldn't take any excuses. At best, he would pull him from the field and put him on probation, but more likely than not, he would kick him off the team completely. May wouldn't say anything, but she'd give him that look, the look that lets him know he screwed up, andFitz-Simmons would invent some kind of complicated device to help him sleep at night.

He doesn't have to guess how Skye would react.

She's the only one who's already noticed.

Every time he yawns, she's next to him with a fresh cup of coffee, and during long briefings, when he starts falling asleep, she nudges him awake. He finds himself dozing off more often now, and with a poke or a kick, she pulls him back each time.

It's a slow sort of torture, going without sleep for so long, and it's doing something to his mind, distorting things, confusing him. Some days, he's not even sure if he's awake or dreaming, but when he sees her, in front of him and not in the well, he remembers.

She's the only thing he's sure of anymore.

…

One night, after everyone else is asleep, he goes downstairs and continues his usual routine with the punching bag. He's so wrapped up that he doesn't hear the footsteps coming down, not until a voice remarks from behind him, _so this is how you've been spending your nights_.

He twists around, startled, and she grins slightly, handing him a towel. He takes it gratefully and sits down on the stairs, wiping his forehead. When he puts it down, she's standing next to him, her expression suddenly serious.

_Why aren't you asleep?_, she asks, her eyebrows furrowed with concern.

_Why aren't you?_, he responds with a shrug of his shoulders. He hopes she'll drop it, but she raises an eyebrow and places her hands on her hips.

He exhales,and leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees. _I've been having bad dreams_, he finally confesses, eyes focused on the ground.

She chuckles in response. _Super Spy has nightmares?_, she questions softly, and he whips his head up, ready to retort, but there's no mocking in her tone, he realizes, no sarcasm on her features.

_It's okay_, she whispers, placing a hand on his shoulder. _I get them too_.

A silence lapses between them as he looks into her eyes. He never noticed it before, but he sees something now, a darkness behind them, the look of someone haunted. He wonders what it is that she dreams about, what it is that keeps her up at night.

_How do you deal with it?_, he finally asks, breaking the silence. Her gaze softens and she gives him a slight smile.

_You just have to remember_, she replies, _they're just dreams. They're not real_.

She squeezes his shoulder gently, then makes her way back up the stairs. _Try to get some sleep_, she calls from the top, and then the disappearing sound of her footsteps tells him that she's gone.

Once it's quiet again, he sighs and stands back up. He's too awake to sleep now, so he goes back to the punching bag, her words ringing in his ears.

They're just dreams, he tells himself as his fists make contact. They're not real.

They're not real.

…

When he wakes up the next morning, he's still in the cargo hold, flat on his back on the ground. It feels different this time, he's not as sore as usual, and as he sits up, he realizes he's underneath a blanket, a pillow on the floor where his head was.

He stands up slowly, folding the blanket neatly, and makes his way upstairs. He's about to leave them outside her bunk, when he notices the door slightly ajar. Glancing inside to make sure she's okay, he notices her curled up tightly on the mattress, a sweater pulled over her torso and a purse underneath her head.

He shakes his head at the sight – she must be freezing – and quietly lets himself into her room, wincing when the door creaks.

She shifts at the noise and opens her eyes, blinking groggily at him. _Is it morning already?_, she yawns, stretching and tossing her sweater to the side.

He murmurs an apology and hands her the blanket and pillow with a quiet _thanks_. She throws them onto the bed and smiles brightly, wide awake.

_If you thought the blanket was comfortable, _she says, _you should try a bed next time_. _You know, that big rectangular thing in your room that you never seem to use?_

He chuckles in response and says he'll think about it. As he turns to leave, she stands up and grabs his wrist.

_Grant_.

He freezes at the sound of his name. It's the first time he's heard her say it without fear.

_Grant, I'm serious_.

She looks up into his face and her grip on his arm tightens. _You need to rest, you can't keep doing this to yourself_.

He can't bring himself to meet her eyes, so he looks down, focusing on her hand. _I can't–_

_Yes, you can_, she interrupts, insistent. _You can_.

She shakes him slightly until he meets her gaze. _They're just dreams, Grant_. _They're not real_.

He had repeated those words to himself last night, but he's still not entirely convinced, and he eyes her skeptically. After a pause, she huffs and brushes past him, leading him by the hand back to his room.

_You, _she declares, pushing him inside_, are going to get at least eight hours of sleep today. And not on the floor or in a conference room chair. Here, in your own bed._

He gapes at her as she grabs his phone and tucks it into her pocket. _We could get a case_, he starts, but she holds up her hand and refuses to let him finish.

_We won't, _she responds and flashes him a self-satisfied smile before closing the door. He hears shuffling, followed by a quiet thud, and he guesses that she's made herself comfortable just outside.

_You win, Skye_,_I'll go to sleep_, he calls out to her_, but what are you still doing out there?_

_Making sure no one bothers you while you're powered down_, she replies, laughing at her own joke.

He can't help but smile as he puts his hand against the glass. _Thanks_, he says softly, _again_,as he climbs into bed. She was right, it is comfortable, more comfortable than he remembers, and he wonders why he ever thought it was a good idea to stay away.

Skye mutters something to herself outside his door, and he chuckles as he closes his eyes.

He falls asleep an instant later.

He doesn't dream.

…

Afterward, when he wakes up, he feels well-rested for the first time in weeks. He forces himself out of the comfort of his bed and pulls the door open, nearly tripping over her as he tries to leave. She's still sitting there, legs crossed, and turns her head up to look at him, grinning broadly.

_No offense,_ she says, jumping to her feet_, but it looks like you really needed that. Feel better?_

He nods vigorously, stretching his arms over his head.

_Good,_ she punches him lightly on the shoulder,_because I've been dying for a sparring partner!_ She giggles, running through the hall and down the stairs. _Loser has to do pull-ups!_

It takes him a moment to realize what just happened, and he laughs, following her down the hall. He stops at the top of the stairs, watching her warm up on the punching bag. Her jabs are quick and strong, her eyes, bright and focused.

As he watches her, he realizes his dream was wrong.

She never needed him to save her from the well because this whole time, he was really the one inside.

This whole time, he was the one drowning, and when she puts her hand on his arm, she tosses him the rope.

When she says his name, he grabs it like a lifeline.

When she says his name, she pulls him out.

_Fin_


End file.
